And I don't have one.

Studiously, I saw into my lamb chop--not exactly delicate of me.

What can I ask him? What can I say?

It's been a couple of days--just a couple of days. And yet I feel a connection, this thrumming. It's the way I feel when I read Henry's letters. But this guy is not on paper. He's sitting right across from me, cracking open a crab leg.

Why do I feel allegiance to anyone? I don't think of myself as a drama queen, and yet I'm constructing scene after scene--like turns in a labyrinth. True, that's pretty dramatic. But I'm losing myself--or I'm finding myself, and it feels like lost.

I chew through the silence.